M. Night Shyamalan's The Village (2004)

Tonight after work, I watched M. Night Shyamalan's 2004 thriller-masterpiece (thrilsterpiece? no, that's not good...) The Village. It had been sitting in my family's TV cabinet for years and I'd never really looked at it--nor had anyone else apparently, as it was pretty dusty when I picked it out to bring back to school with me last week. I'd seen a few of M. Night's movies, knew he was famous for The Twist Ending (that guy was Bruce Willis the whole time! ... anyone?), and didn't really go either way on the love him/hate him front. I had no idea what this movie was about, except a village (duh) and some ominous music I remembered from the trailer when it came out originally. Of the friends I watched it with, one had seen it but didn't remember the twist, and one was as clueless as me, so I was in good company for a first time viewing. Beware: here there be spoilers!

I like movies that make me think, ones that leave me speechless, ones that don't do my thinking for me. The Village was like that for me. The Village was billed as horror, I suppose, but it was so much more: the fact that you see the creatures, The Ones We Do Not Speak Of, halfway through the movie--albeit from afar and relatively blurrily--makes it less of a monster thriller and more about the people in the town itself. Sometimes the creepiest horror stories are the ones that aren't about the supernatural or the unexplainable; they are the ones about real flesh-and-blood humans and the way our natures can go terribly wrong.

I really want the twist to be that this village is a cult and outside it's really like 2009. But probly not. #TheVillage #thatsnotthetwist

— Caitlin Clayton (@caitclay) July 31, 2013

This was like 40 minutes into the movie. I'm not saying I'm psychic buuuut...

A general rundown of the story if it's been a while for you: everybody lives in this quaint little countryside village, ostensibly in the middle of nowhere, but there is obviously fear here--exhibit A, two full-skirted girls having a wonderful time sweeping the porch when they see a scary red flower and run a safe distance away from the house to bury it without explanation but with mortal terror in their eyes. The Elders run the town, and it is made up mostly of the parents of each of our protagonists: handicapped Noah Percy (Adrien Brody)'s parents have no audible names but cry a lot toward the end of the film; heartthrob Lucius Hunt--who does not bounce about like the other boys, father--is brought to brooding life by Joaquin Phoenix and is mothered by the incomparable Sigourney Weaver, who wears no makeup and has a lot of sexual tension; blind Ivy Walker (badass then-newcomer Bryce Dallas Howard) is one of the daughters of the revered Reverend Edward Walker (William Hurt) and his wife Tabitha (Jayne Atkinson), who obviously isn't that into him because papa Walker is said to be the cause of mama Hunts aforementioned sexual tension. Angsty Irishman Brendan Gleeson is August Nicholson, whose pain pushes our story into motion with the loss of his son. Ever-honorable Lucius approaches Ye Olde Council to ask permission to go through the forest of beasties to fetch medical supplies that could've saved Nicholson's son, but everyone says no because they don't want to breach the boarder and make Those We Do Not Speak Of angry enough to attack again. Business as usual: people are married, loves are professed, but the attacks come anyway. Even in this quaint little nowhere town jealousy comes to rear its ugly head, bringing with it attempted murder: Noah stabs Lucius after the latter announces his intentions to marry Ivy, and Ivy leaves her beloved on his deathbed to go to the towns and subsequently learn what the deal is with their perfect little town.

It would've been easy for this movie to fail based on characters alone. It is difficult to write a blind or mentally handicapped character without making their pain seem co-opted, but Shyamalan worked the intricacies of each character's disability into their mannerisms, their speech, and ultimately their actions (i.e. the plot). At one point, my friend asked, "Ok, whyyy do you send the blind girl to "the towns" through the creepy monster-infested woods," and while part of the answer is to further the plot (she can't see modernity outside the walls, so the towns dirty little secret stays safe), but it is also because that is her character, and because of her blindness, Ivy has actually become one of the most capable and aware characters in the entire story. She continues to have footraces with Noah and break up fights and dance the lovely choreographed dances that everyone in town knows and even go to the freaking forbidden forest alone because her escorts are awful and pansy-assed. While at first I was irked that the female protagonist was the blind one (disabled by a man, and other feminist inklings), I grew more and more impressed with Ivy Walker, standing her ground to wait and see if Lucius was safe during the attack, continuing on through the forest and killing the monster that stalked her in the woods; basically never giving up, even when faced with the very evil her she grew up fearing though her father just recently told her it was a hoax (I mean, hearing and believing are two very different things). She was dedicated to her goal and came back to her love, and the movie closed on her face, staring straight into the camera with unseeing eyes, as she so often did. I loved her.

Look at that face. That girl gives no fucks.

Later, my boyfriend and I discussed the ending. He mentioned how he would've liked the original draft ending better; where death itself was watching over the town which was in some sort of limbo. I agree that that particular ending would be excellent as well, but I kind of liked how it was brought down to earth, how the most unexpected thing to do in a supernatural monster movie is to make the monsters actually humans and the whole thing a grand experiment that makes poor security guard Kevin question what he is doing with his godforsaken life. The slow reveal of more and more toward the end is typical of a Shyamalan flick, and I think the quality of having to think backward after a film is over is one of my favorite aspects of a well-done movie like this.

Now, I'm not saying that every aspect of the plot works logistically and some of the questions I had after the movie ended were certainly substantial, (like why they went back to the 1800s, why the only way they made them sound old timey was to eliminate contractions, how the village was going to continue when the elders were no more, etc) but The Village was cinematically executed to a near-perfection. Shyamalan used every masking of the frame to enhance who was speaking, allowing the camera to follow Ivy from the back so we too were blind as she walked, focusing on hands and feet and movement rather than particular faces, intense color binaries unexplained early on and left to pop up again and again until we understood them better--these are the things that made me love this movie.

After re-watching the trailer, it occurs to me that I watched the film on the anniversary of it coming out in theaters. Huh.

The Village, 2004. Dir. M. Night Shyamalan. Bryce Dallas Howard, Joaquin Phoenix, Sigourney Weaver, William Hurt, Adrien Brody.

Much Ado About Joss Whedon

review of Joss Whedon's Much Ado About Nothing (2013). Bellwether Pictures.
{NOTE: this review contains spoilers and also assumes the reader has a working knowledge of the play itself. Sorry if you're not in those categories...}

Cast of Characters: Amy Acker as Beatrice, Alexis Denisof as Benedick, Nathan Fillion as Dogberry, Clark Gregg as Leonato, Reed Diamond as Don Pedro, Fran Kranz as Claudio, Jillian Morgese as Hero, Sean Maher as Don John, Spencer Treat Clark as Borachio, Riki Lindhome as Conrade, Ashley Johnson as Margaret, Tom Lenk as Verges, Brian McElhaney and Nick Kocher as the watchmen, and Romy Rosemont as the Sexton.

My fangirly instagram of the movie poster when I went to see the film.

I am an unabashed Joss Whedon fan. I love Buffy and Dollhouse and Firefly and Cabin in the Woods and Fray and Doctor Horrible and his zombie Republican video and his work with BriTANicK. . . the list could go on. My writing desk is peppered with his quotes traced lovingly onto lined paper in forceful black ink, where I can see them and be inspired by his nerd brain whenever I am at a loss for words or direction. Needless to say, I was beyond pumped when I heard my dear Joss was filming a version of my favorite Shakespeare play to be out this year, and the fact that he filmed it in his own house in 12 days with a bunch of his actor friends whose work I also know and love made me love him even more.

As soon as the first scene opened, my smile stretched wide--I could feel that I was going to enjoy this, and I was giddy with excitement. The not-quite-black-and-white color scheme gave the film a somber feel at first, but it worked wonders as the film paced itself out and got down with its screwball self. It was almost like it increased the focus on the faces because they were so stark and defined, and it helped bridge the gap between the modern dress and the archaic language. I could tell from the first canted high angle and off-center focus of Benedick silently getting dressed that the cinematography was going to be brilliant, framing just what needed to be framed in order for the scene to pack its full emotional punch. The film jumps back and forth from somber with undernotes of betrayal to giddy with suggestions of gleeful romping as fast as it takes for the viewer to decide if the black of Clark Gregg's suit jacket is really black or more of an emerald-tinted darkness in a single scene. The poles of angst and comedy are almost brutally encapsulated in certain characters, Don John being representative of the former and the good Constable Dogberry being gleefully indicative of the latter, and yet even the darkest scene where Hero is senselessly called out by her so-called true love (yeah, I'm a little bitter) still garnered laughs from some of the folks in my audience.

That's another thing I love about Joss Whedon. His ability to find the laughter. He has this quote that goes like this: "Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough, but then, for the love of God, tell a joke." And with Joss at the helm of Much Ado, I knew one of my absolute favorite comedic characters in the entire history of all literature ever would get his day in the sun: Dogberry. The bumbling constable of Messina, king of malapropisms and misunderstandings, one of the most seemingly-incompetent characters in the film who actually saves the day and makes everyone happy again. His lines are some of the funniest in the play when delivered with such gusto as the god Nathan Fillion so does, and I love him for it. Dogberry and his co-constable, Verges (played by Tom Lenk, the eternal child/wannabe-bad guy Andrew Wells of Buffy fame), and the two night watchmen (brought to hilarious life by the BriTANicK comedy duo) were possibly the kings of the facial expression, raising eyebrows at Dogberry's every misused word ("This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men") but still trying their best to do their jobs. Some critics say that these characters were meant to criticize the contemporary police force when Shakespeare wrote the play, but I've always felt them to be a beacon of hope, a sort of reassurance that no matter how smart you think you are, you can always save the day. Because even supporting characters have that power.

Joss is the master director of clever facial expressions, and he is perfect for this play that is all about undertones and suggestion and hilarity ensuing. For those not in the know, Much Ado About Nothing is a Shakespeare play from circa 1588 having to do with the matchmaking antics of a few friends to set up two of their gang who are eternally enmeshed in a merry war of wits, never realizing their obvious connection to one another. The casting was brilliant, employing a bunch of Joss's previous actors whose versatility is tried and true, and Joss's direction of their interactions truly cement Much Ado's place in the screwball comedy tradition that it deserves, linking modern apparati with Shakespearean language and reveling in the interplay of the two--for example, when John the Bastard is captured and brought back to Messina, a messenger says "My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight,/ And brought with armed men back to Messina," and a cameraphone is employed to give witness to this event, showcasing a Cops-style overhead video feed of the arrest.

A sort of set piece in itself, the house used as a home base--Joss's own home, which his wife designed--was beautiful. Its expansive California grandeur lent itself to the partying lifestyle of Shakespeare's Messina, but by centering an entire town's movements on a single location, the house also allowed the film to focus in on the people themselves, ever overlapping and slipping past each other: perfect for a story that is basically 98% about eavesdropping. Think about it--every major plot point involves someone listening in on someone else's conversations: Benedick falling for Beatrice, Beatrice falling for Benedick, Don John's set-up to make Hero look defiled, the revelation of said plot by the watchmen--it's all pure hearsay. Wonderfully plotted hearsay, but still indirect and subject to interpretation, a quality every single character in this play is counting on. At its core, Much Ado is a meditation on the meaning and quality of human interaction, and Joss Whedon, with his masterful combination of Shakespeare's fine words and his own knowledge of the human body's ability to showcase and shape those words with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, has terrifically succeeded in translating a phenomenal play into a phenomenal piece of film.

Friday the 13th, aka Sam Winchester really can't fight

Tonight, I watched Friday the 13th, the 2009 remake starring an adorably non-Hunter-ish Sam Winchester...uh...I mean...Jared Padalecki. Anyway, I figured this was an easy place to start with my horror re-education because it had a lot of actors I already knew in it and that might help me ease into things again. And I liked it. I tweeted throughout, keeping my heart light while still jumping at the appropriate jump-out-moments--EVEN though I am a writer and most of them I saw coming. Sometimes my body betrays me. Two things struck me about the film: one, the incredible range of emotion suggested by a character with no face (really, I'm serious, I'll get to it,) and two, the ending scene, a prototypical WILL THERE BE MORE flash before cut to black. Granted, these are observations from a student still in Horror 101, so bear with me if all my ramblings are painfully obvious to you all.

ONE, or, the many faces of Jason Voorhees:
Clever meme by Cyberii at Deviantart.

Ok, all jokes aside, I was really impressed with the expression of a masked/faceless killer. There is emotion in this man whether there is meant to be or not, whether it's body language or the way he holds his head, and it seems to me that this adds to the terror. The emotions of a face unable to express itself are inherently paradoxical. How many horror movies can you count off the top of your head that have masked killers in them? How many have unmasked killers? Which is more terrifying, the mask or trying to figure out who the hell is behind it? It seems to me that one of the biggest things about horror is not just the fear, but also the fear of the unknown. The fear of being helpless, of not being able to do anything to stop what's coming.

TWO, or, a horror movie is never actually over when it says it is:

On a similar note, horror movies never seem to end. Right when you think it's over, the killer always comes back for more, leaving the movie open for possible (and significantly lucrative) franchise status. But again I think it goes back to the idea of no matter what happens, there's nothing any of the characters can do to stop it from continuing. As soon as Clay and his sister Whitney push Jason's body into the lake and take a breath, the sun coming up on what promises to be a new beginning....something erupts from the water and everything gets crazy again.

P.S. Is it a coincidence I watched this on March THIRTEENTH? Hrm........

Review: Wreck-It Ralph

SUMMARY: Wreck-It Ralph is the antagonist in Fix-It Felix Jr., an arcade game that serves as the launching-point for this wonderfully innovative animated film. Ralph longs to be as Good as his opponent, and even joins a Bad-Guy Support Group to try to work through his feelings of inadequacy--their mantra incorporates repeated use of the words Good and Bad, stretching the meanings to fit this new perspective of the-bad-guy-as-normal. Some of the peons in Ralph's game challenge him to win a Hero's Medal--then and only then will they treat him like a Hero (like Felix), but they know it will never happen. Ralph surprises them by going off-track and disappearing into another game, begging the question of whether his stubbornness will cost all the residents their world?

PRE-VIEWING: I am ridiculously excited for this movie. I love films that play with perspective like this, forcing a character who is typically not thought of as protagonist material into the spotlight. I love that Ralph exists in a universe not entirely composed of his own game, but where his game is like a tree branch or a country within a greater, more expansive universe. I'm interested to see how it will end, to see whether Ralph will return, empowered, to his own game or if he will make his own way in the world. It will be interesting to see what kind of message is shown. [written prior to viewing]

POST-VIEWING: Wreck-It Ralph is an animated movie with the mind of a video game. There are so many aspects to this fun film that are clearly delivered as Cupid's arrow to the heart of an old-school gamer: for example, the characters move like they would in their own games, in their own animations, even though the tech for this movie far surpasses that of Super Mario Bros. Early on, the rules of this universe are established, most of them running contrary to what Ralph, as a character, is capable of doing on his own--he steals cherries from Pac-Man and tries desperately to hide them from Surge Protector, the game security patrolman who guards the checkpoints between games and Game Central Station.

The one thing I was struck most by was the innovation of having an arcade be like a world in itself, with the power strip as Grand Central Station, and characters able to move back and forth through the cords between their game and a centralized location--when the arcade is closed, of course. This cerebral imagining of what life is like inside a video game is reminiscent of Tron, a 1982 film about a coder who gets sucked inside a computer, and The Great Good Thing, a 2002 novel about a book character who breaks all the rules and looks up at the Reader instead of playing her part.
This film is full of references, both to other video games and pop culture itself: at one point, Ralph angrily asks another character "what are you hiding in this candy-coated heart of darkness?!" The film is the definition of intertextuality, bringing all these disparate elements together, but it is not done in a way that detracts from the simplicity and soul of the movie.

At its barest, Wreck-It Ralph is truly a coming of age tale, even though the character is nearly 30 years old by his own admission. Ralph moves from his game to two others, chasing after something he thinks he wants, only to realize that he can be ok with himself as he was. The element that really clinched this arc, however, is Fix-It Felix, who follows Ralph in order to stop his game from being Unplugged forever. Felix too comes to an understanding, but it is one that Ralph has lived with his entire existence.

Wreck-It Ralph (2012). Dir. Rich Moore. Disney Animation Studios. John C Reilly, Jack McBrayer, Sarah Silverman, Jane Lynch, Alan Tudyk, Mindy Kaling.